


Service

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Alley Blow Jobs, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blow Jobs, Lords of London, M/M, Master/Servant, Servants, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:57:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13354086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: Smith pushes himself up off his knees, the cold making his joints ache in the slightest hint of age, and wipes his mouth with the hand that isn’t holding crumpled banknotes. He rubs the soreness from his legs from kneeling for so long. The stable master of the house disappears further down the alleyway, ducking around the corner and out of sight. Smith stumbles back inside the manor house on chilled feet, and in the dim candlelight, he almost misses the figure waiting for him.At finding one of his servants outside after-hours, Lord Trott grabs Smith’s forearm, tugging him out into the hallway and inside the routinely stocked pantries of the Trott Estate House. “Smith, where have you been?”





	Service

**Author's Note:**

> Trott is a Lord of London, Smith is his chamber servant
> 
> cw: unprotected sex, Trott calls Smith a slag once?, mention of lords being physically rough with servants, dubious because position of power/authority, sex work, blow jobs
> 
> reblog: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2018/01/12/service-ghostofgatsby
> 
> If anyone wants to write something for this verse (/actually write that blow job scene), go right ahead!  
> Whether or not I'll write something more myself, I dunno. Only time and ideas will tell, I suppose.

Smith pushes himself up off his knees, the cold making his joints ache in the slightest hint of age, and wipes his mouth with the hand that isn’t holding crumpled banknotes. He rubs the soreness from his legs from kneeling for so long. Flecks of snow slowly fall from the dark winter sky, catching in Smith’s eyelashes and the fringe of his auburn hair.

The stable master of the house disappears further down the alleyway, ducking around the corner and out of sight. Sighing to himself, Smith neatly folds the banknotes and tucks them into his front coat pocket. He stumbles back inside the manor house on chilled feet, expecting the servants’ entry to be as abandoned as he’d left it earlier. He loosens a button on his coat, wiping his shoes on the mat by the door, wondering if he can gather a late supper at this hour. In the dim candlelight, he almost misses the figure waiting for him in the arch of the doorway leading from the room.  
  
One of the Lords of England and the master of the house, Lord Trott, stands with his arms folded across his chest. He’s dressed in his embroidered riding coat from his meetings with the other members of parliament earlier in the day, with his lavender cravat bright and tied neatly under his chin. He was in charge of his manor house, located in London, as well as stocks in tea and newsprintings, and businesses along the Thames.

At finding one of his servants outside after-hours, Trott grabs Smith’s forearm, tugging him out into the hallway and inside the routinely stocked pantries of the Trott Estate House. Despite being shorter and slimmer in stature than Smith, he can easily pull him from the room. Trott’s clothes hide his toned musculature from years of horseback riding and fencing, things he has not given up on regardless of his position in parliament.

“Smith, where have you _been?_ ” he asks, his tone curious but sharp as he lowers his voice, “This is the third time this week you’ve disappeared from the upper halls unaccounted for. Why were you outside?"

"I was taking out some garbage, milord," Smith lies, trying to save face. Trott’s hand grips his arm, the heat from his skin permeating through the cold fabric. It makes Smith want to seek out the touch, but he tamps down a shiver.

Trott narrows his eyes, looking him over in speculation. "Why are your trousers dirty?"

Smith looks down. There are mud-dirty spots on the knees, and rubbed in, with the imprints of gravel because he’d been in that position awhile.

"And why would you bother taking the garbage downstairs yourself? You've never bothered with that before unless I asked it of you,” Trott continues. His dark eyes bore into Smith’s, the brown of his irises both warm and cold.

Smith says nothing. His lips quiver, uncertain of he can say what Trott wants to hear. It’s clear that Trott already knows more than Smith thought he did.

Trott lets go of his arm. ”You’ve been outside long enough for your cheeks to get red with cold, Smith.” The backs of his fingers brush Smith’s cheek. "Don’t lie to me. Show me. Show me what you were doing," he intones severely.

“Milord,” Smith swallows thickly, unsure if Trott knows what he’s asking. He can feel where Trott’s fingers have touched his cold skin, even moments after- even the memory of it is like the warmth of the fire. And he is close enough to get burned. His head spins with the order, because he would have gotten on his knees only for his lord if he had known Trott would have asked. “Milord, I...”

Trott shakes his head, dismissing what he thinks is Smith’s protest. "I won't have secrets in this house, you know that. You swore an oath-"

Smith slowly moves to his knees, one hand raised a fraction in a placating gesture. "I was kneeling. I was kneeling outside in the alley, milord." He stares at the stone floor between Trott's buckled shoes.

"And doing what, _praying?_ " Trott snarks.

There is a beat of silence.

"No, nothing like that,” Smith confesses, “I...was servicing men for sexual favors. Men of the house. The men that work for the estate. You pay plenty, sir, I don't mean that you don't- I don't do it for the money. I do it...simply for sex." The words leave him in a rush, and he feels cold and empty when he’s finished speaking. Trott could do what he wished at this point- fire him, have him arrested, anything. The silence afterward feels like a sentencing.

Trott grasps Smith's chin gently and tilts his head up to meet his eyes. There wasn't an ounce of remorse or regret in Smith, simply apprehension at his actions being discovered. He didn’t know what one of the Lords of London would think of one of his servants doing such acts, when it could slander the reputation of the House.

Strangely, Trott regarded him with interest- not repulsion, or anger- and a spark of hope and desire lit alight in Smith. His hand is warm and soft, his fingers framing the gingery stubble on Smith’s jawline, and it makes kneeling on the unforgiving cobblestone pantry floor worth the trouble.

"You filthy slag," Trott tuts, a small smirk crossing his features. "I had my suspicions that’s what you were up to. Rumors say you're the best cocksucker in the estate."

A smile tugs at Smith's mouth. “I’ve been around.”

"You being a chamber servant, maybe I should have expected it from you..." Trott's grip tightens slightly. He brushes his thumb across Smith's cheek.

“Forgive me for working behind your back, milord- it was not my intent,” Smith apologizes with grace and charm, batting his eyelashes overdramatically.

Trott chuckles. "Well. You serve me first, do you not? So I think you should prove your skills to me. It would not do to withhold a service you could provide to your lordship, would it?"

"No, milord." Smith shakes his head, eyes fixed as Trott slowly undoes his trousers with one hand.

"Good." Trott smiles. "So let's see what that mouth of yours can do."

**Author's Note:**

> random wiki manor houses I looked at:
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Stewart  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loring_Hall  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wynyard_Park,_County_Durham  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Londonderry_House  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cawdor_Castle#/media/File:Cawdor_castle2.jpg  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cricklade


End file.
